 And now... Miss Agnes Mordred in... Death and Miss Turner... A tale well calculated to keep you in... Suspense. We went out for a walk this morning. I was dead and I went out for a walk. Miss Biggs went with me. It was her idea. I wouldn't have particularly thought of it. She brought the new picture in this morning. She took my chair and stood on it. And took off one shoe and hammered the nail in the wall and hung the picture up. She asked me if it was hanging straight and I said I thought so. Then she said... Well... She took off her glasses and gave me a little enquiring expression. She always does that after she's done something for me. She wants my approval. So I looked at the picture hanging there. And I smiled and I said... It's lovely. A plain black frame. Yes, you're right. That's just the right frame for it. There are some other pictures down there we could have framed if you like. There would be a lot of trouble wouldn't there? Not a bit. I think I could see some more. There's a headache just hovering over me. I don't want to wait until it gets me. Of course. You finish your nap. You know what might be nice though later on? To go for a stroll in the park. Go out today. And have lunch somewhere nice. Like 1996 Piccadilly or Clarison? How about it, Rachel? I was dead. Long, long dead. And I went out for a walk. My name is Rachel. Yes, I can't be any doubt about that, no. The American leads the Englishman and says... Well, how are things here, old boy? And the Englishman says... This is the next year. Are you getting tired, dear? Seen enough of London for one day? Oh, no, no. I'm enjoying this so very much. As long as we don't walk too far. Oh, we're not always. Lovely. How long have you been in London, Rachel? You know I can't tell you that, Miss Riggs. I forgot. You're just hoping that I... Just might let something sort of slip accidentally? Aren't you, Miss Riggs? Yes, I guess so. It'd be nice, wouldn't it? No. No, it wouldn't. Don't count on it, Miss Riggs. It's not going to happen. I can't risk it. Very well, my dear. Here's the free shop where I got our new picture done. It's a black frame. You like so much. He's freeing some more for us. Let's just go in and see how he's coming along. Is this a new shop? Yes, I think so. Anybody in? Who's that? Oh, Miss Riggs. And how are we today? Oh, fine. Thank you, Mrs. Hutney. My friend here and I thought we'd just look in and see how our little job of work is going. I see, I see. That was four oils. By who was it? A turner. That's a turner. Let me see. Oh, no. I'm afraid we haven't got to them yet. They're still hanging up there on the line. I've been here before. I think you're fine. It was the same. Why? I'm afraid not. You see... What do you mean? I tell you why. Well, I've only just opened my shop a few weeks ago. I'm not talking about your shop, Mr. Hutney. But these things... Oh, these paintings. Oh, I don't know. Miss Brink brought them in. By turner. Turner? That's the process. J. M. Turner? Well, these have nothing to do with him. In the first place, he was watercolor. In the second place, landscape. In the third... Well, not J. M. Turner. Another turner. They signed... R. Turner. Oh. Interesting painter, don't you think? Not exactly macabre, but something shivery about them. All four of them seem to have been... Well, I guess you call it an ominous overtone. Yeah? I don't feel that particular. Well, wouldn't you call it a little nightmarish when a painter goes to do much trouble with all this detail of painting a man in his hand and his shoes, the handchief in his pocket, the carnation in his buttonhole and then leaves out his face in all four paintings. No fission. I see a thing. Oh, there's a gold. Not complete. Not the filled-in feature. But the qualities of this man's face are there for me, even though they're not there for you. I should know this man if I met him. I think we could be getting back. He's dead, I think. We rode back in a taxi in this big denier. She had a bundle which Mr. Putney said she'd ordered or something. I wasn't listening to them. Every time I opened my mouth to say something, I gave them an advantage. Every time I went out for a walk like today, I showed things in my expression that told them what they wanted to know. I've fallen into a trap when Miss Briggs has suggested that walk this morning. They've been meek. Which have never have gone. I want to be dead. And I won't be brought back from it. No, wasn't that a pleasant outing? Yes. Yes. What have you gotten that bundle? Uh-huh. Stuff I ordered the other day from Mr. Putney. Oh, what is it? You lost. No, I won't. Well, I know it's foolish, but anyway, it's something I've always wanted to have a private devil at. They say it relaxes the nerves. Who knows? My younger than Grandma Moses. Paint. What about the paint and brushes? This one, please. Costs to be used. It's for the fine detail work, he said. Sable. It's a sable brush. And D, you mix your colors on them. And then there's whatever this is, fixative and... Milk. Anyway, I've gone and got a perfect smash of a real professional kit. Now if someone would teach me to draw straight lines... I wouldn't buy this box of paint for yourself. Did you miss, Brie? What have you seen? You brought them for me. That's it, isn't it? I was the painter. That's what you're waiting for me to find out, isn't it? Art Turner. The painter who does portraits of a man without a face. It's Rachel Turner. Is that it? I don't remember it, but... Is that it? Where am I, Rachel Turner? Wait here. I've got to get Dr. Price. I knelt at the door a moment after she had gone. On a square of flights, they came the only thing in the room. I picked up a canvas. I drew a chair forward and popped the canvas against it. I was doing my best not to sink, not to govern my actions, simply to allow whatever might happen. My hand was tearing away the cellophane wrapper from the charcoal. I leaned over the square of white prop there on the chair. And like plunging a dagger into a white body, I invaded the purity of the canvas with a bold and perfectly symmetrical oval in black. Done with one stroke. The charcoal fell from my hand. Now the oils were spurting onto the palette. The sable brush stabbing into the color, blending, casting the mixture. Perfect flesh tone. But what thing? Here is the doctor. The doctor? Well, we meet at last. I mean to say we meet as people meet in a drawing room. A cocktail party perhaps where the hostess doesn't have time to introduce us all around and we find ourselves, you and I, elbow to elbow at the punch hole. In this moment you smile to me as I hand you your glass and I say my name is Crack. I'm Rachel Turner. I'm a painter. Who are you? You know that's the subject in which I'm densely ill-informed. I'm a psychologist myself. Sir Bartley Grimes of a magicess college of medicine. Words have not only a painter but a positive encyclopedia. How would you know that? Have we met before? You've not met at all this way. You don't meet you and I, Sir Bartley, until some months from now when you are my doctor and I'm a patient who has lost a memory. How much do you know now, Miss Turner? You're going to be sorry. More than that. You'll be the object of all the murderous hatred my soul is capable of if you persist in bringing me back. I should respect. Many people hate me. I save many others from being hated, Miss Turner. Did you take this picture just now in those 15 minutes while Miss Biggs and I were talking? Yes. It's remarkable. Amazing. This man's face. Why him? I mean for what reason in this particular encounter? Is he real? From a life? Yes. What does he mean then? Who is he? I don't know. I don't know. I saw him only once. Then why did you feel compelled to bring back this face to show George again now? Why? I... It's the face of the man I murdered. We continue with Death and Miss Turner, starring Miss Agnes Moorhead. A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. You murdered this man whose face you hated, sir? Yes. Yes, I did. How did you murder him? I don't know. You have no, no recollection of having actually done so? You were unable to tell yourself where this happened or when? No. I'm sure that I killed him. Miss Turner, we are going to give you something to make you sleep. Now, will you roll up your sleeve for Miss Briggs? Oh, yes. Yes, we will need to help you to sleep for a period of time now. I hope it will be a brief period. You wanted to sleep a great deal of recent months, haven't you? Yes, that was because you were afraid of reality. Of your thoughts while awake. You were always dosing off or taking a nap or staying in bed till half the day was gone. No. No, I know I'm a murderer. I've earned the right to be drugged into forgetting it for a few hours. I was already dead. I'd forgotten. Why couldn't I have been allowed to die? Why not have hung me and been done with it? Hung you? Hung you for what? For a murder you cannot describe. Other man whose death and circumstances pointing to violence we have no record of. No one on earth has come forward to accuse you of any crime. How did you find me? What was I doing? Where was I when you found me? You must remember what happened yourself. You must live through that horror again. Only then will you know what is true. In the mean time, I shall help you in every way I can. Take me if you like, and it's better than hating yourself. Good night, Miss Turner. So many years to remember. A life brought back to be my own. The figures and landscapes and people which belonged to me. For nothing had been alive the day before. It was all there. Up until my birthday. What happened on the 16th of April? I remember the night before. It was the last thing I remembered until a waking here in the hospital on the first day of May. I was standing in the lobby of the hotel just having got off that rickety elevator. And my bag was packed. It was there at my feet. And the porter came around from behind his booth and handed me my train ticket. After that, nothing. Black. White. Piano. Tune. Train. Teach. Paristar. Felicity. Pelix. Train. Porter. Take it. Mm-hmm. Train. No, why? I beg your pardon. No, why? She has that long train at the door, okay? Oh, yes. Quite right. Blood. Dead. Train. A door. A saw. Mr. Turner, have you noticed anything about your response to this word? Which word, Doctor? The word train. I have put it through three times. And each time you have, for some reason, avoided connoting what one should expect to be the most commonplace association. You have not answered with smoke or wheels or water in the station or underground. Have you any idea why you should be unwilling? So that is known as the word train is a high-speed conveyance travelling on rails. I... I don't have any idea. Book. Dealer. Walkshelf. Hoodings. Train. Wreck. Thank you, Mr. Turner. I think that will do us for today. Miss Briggs took me back to my room. I was in a fever. I could hardly walk straight. She kept dabbing at my boy with her hand at you so he didn't do any good. I could see her lips moving. Probably asking me if I was all right. And she could help me. But I couldn't hear her. There was another horrifying, terrible sound filling my ears. I held my hands over them trying to... I would go louder. In my room, Miss Briggs tried to push me toward the bed. I could see her lips cramming. You must lie down. And I stretched her out of the way and lunged for the candle. My arms were numb to the bed. So they were floating out of my control. Except that they ached agonizingly. There were flashes before my eyes. Honking waves that threw my head back and forth as though I were being battered in some apocalyptic song. This is it, Miss. Oh, yes, yes. All right, roll up that sleeve. Yes, no, Rachel. She can't get that picture there. It's very, it's like a madwoman. This is it. Be quiet. Now, Miss Turner, the picture's a little bit different this time, Miss Turner. It will stop hitting in just a moment. There, it's better already, isn't it? Picture, you just done, Miss Turner. Is it good? I think it's extraordinarily good. Are you sleeping? Sleeping. But awake. I sleep, but not asleep. Could you describe this picture to me as though I've never seen it? A man sitting in a railway compartment looking out the window betraying. Opposite him with her back choice is a woman. It is as though we were the woman whose attention is on this man. As though we were this woman? Yes. Don't you mean that you are this woman, Miss Turner? Yes, I am. What day is it now? My birthday. April the 16th, last April. Yes. That is the day. I'm aboard the flying Scotsman. I'm on my way to Edinburgh to paint the moon. I'm in a compartment alone. I'm relaxed and happy. I feel the urge to paint something. Right here as the train goes speeding along. And what can we paint? A man. It is the embodiment of a man. His posture. His clothes. For some reason I cannot paint his face. I know his face. But I find it impossible to transfer it to the canvas. I make four separate versions of him. But each time my brush remains poised in mid-air Confusing to invade the oval of white where the face should be. At Manchester I get out to stretch my legs Walking up and down the station platform. And when I review my compartment I find that I have a fellow traveller sharing it with me. As I seek myself opposite him He turns to face me directly. A man. It's his face which is missing from the portrait But lie on the seat beside me. How do you do? How do you do? I... How do you do? What is it, Miss? Do you feel unwell? It gives me for staring at you. I didn't... I mean looking at you in this way. That's all right. If you like. I'm a painter, you see. Artist? Oh, Johnny Gordon, artist. Well, this is the impossible part. Here, you see these pictures? Oh, yes. Yes, very interesting. Not to know who it is. It's his face. Oh, but I do know. I didn't feel like I'd do the face before, but now I can. Oh, oh, oh. Why? Because it's your face. My face? Why my face? Yes. I know it sounds queer, but... You're going to put my face in there? Yes. If I may. Well, all right. All right, go right ahead. You mean it? No. Certainly. Now, now, what do I do? Do I just sit here? Yes, yes, just that way. Please, if you tilt your head just a little more that way. This all right? Yes. You're in the shadow, though. There's only a little more light. Oh, I have it. We don't be too much trouble if we change places. There's good light here where I'm sitting. Have a big one. If we change places, I'll sit over there. And you... Oh, oh, yes, yes. Change places. Oh, certainly. I sit down where he's been. And he places himself exactly where I've been sitting. For a moment, he looked at me, smiling. And then it happened. To the grinding, crashing thunder. He did not kill him. You know that now. Now that you remember. He comes back. Back to the edge of madness. My train leaves at midnight. He gave me a farewell tea this afternoon. And I even had a cocktail. The hostess is much too busy to introduce us all around. But a very nice gentleman came up to me and introduced himself. My name is Grace. I'm a psychologist. I am Richard Turner. I'm a painter. I starred in Death and Miss Turner. Written especially for her by William Spear. And produced and directed by William M. Robeson. Supporting Ms. Moorhead in Death and Miss Turner were Irene Tedrow, Raymond Lawrence, John White, and Richard Peele. Listen. Listen again next week. When we return with another tale, well calculated to keep you in suspense.